Jessica Kramer isn't talking to me right now.
I'll have to start injecting coffee in my jugular to jumpstart Code Of Armor: Breakthrough, I think.
Problem: I've never written fantasy.
Solution: Do it anyway.
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So, here's my opening scene. It's the magical version of this...
“Private Farmboy! What are you?
Tired? Get up that gods-damned
rope and ring my bell, before I skin you alive and feed you to the Company Gunny!”
Mage Recruit
Anders, still gasping from the three-mile formation run, dropped his hands to
the tops of his knees. A quick jolt from
the Mage Instructor’s baton-wand straightened him up, and he sucked hard for
wind. He looked up, forlorn, at the bell looming at the top of the tower. Inhaling the cold morning air was like breathing
daggers of ice. His face was mottled in purples
and reds, flush from the exertion and exhaustion of the morning’s training
schedule.
This was only week four of recruit
training, and he was hating life more than usual.
“Aye, aye, sir!”
he managed to say between ragged breaths.
Anders, still puffing
hard, reached for the rope with his hands. Another jolt, harder this time, made
him pull his hand back as if something bit him.
“Gods-damn it, Private
Farmboy, did you join the Fingers Corps, or the Mage Corps?”
“This recruit joined the Mage
Corps, sir!”
“Well, then, get your snake-strokers
off my rope, there, and utilize the training my beloved Corps has invested in
you. Now, the Primary Ascent chant. Belt it out, like you’ve got a pair! Focus!”
Anders’ mind
raced, trying to put aside the pain in his side and the biting cold. They had just learned this one yesterday. Ascend, ascend, ascend…which prayer to which
god granted flight? Andos? Ravahl?
No, not Ravahl, she was fire primary, flight secondary. Andos.
He was the primary.
“While we’re
young, Private Farmboy! Select the
runestone, focus the will, and invoke the chant until the deed’s done. The
rope’s just a focus object, to keep you from breaking your silly neck. Now, ascend my obstacle and ring that bell!”
“Aye, aye, sir!”
Fumbling through
the rune stones carried by each recruit on a string of sacred silver, Anders
ticked them off one by one until a light blue triangle was in his hand. Though his lungs were burning, he held his
breath, closed his eyes, and called upon the favor of the Sky God, Andos.
His feet left the
ground, and he rose on unsteady currents of mystic energy. The sensation
unsettled him, breaking his unsteady focus.
Like a fish, Recruit Anders flopped on his side, falling from four feet
up. After impact, the mage instructor clamped an iron gauntlet around his
forearm and jerked the young man to his feet.
“Louder, and with
faith, gods-damn it, Private Farmboy! Visualize the destination. Visualize the bell. Feel the power flow through you. Set yourself aside from your fear. Now, unscrew yourself, and do it again. Visualize, channelize, attack! Quit dreaming of milking the cows back home,
and get up my rope!”
“Visualize,
channelize, attack, aye, aye, sir!”
Anders brushed the cold sand from
his side and pinched the glowing runestone between his thumb and forefinger. Bracing himself, he barked out the prayer in
a growling, repetitious manner. He felt
the power course through him, forming an ethereal halo around his body. His shaking boots lifted from the ground,
slow and smooth, and he rose. The bell’s ornate rune carvings became more
pronounced as he flew higher. He
marveled at the light blue energy pulsing around him as he ascended. He gauged his altitude by stealing a quick
view down. The Mage Instructor’s stern
gaze met his own, and he faltered.
“Today, Anders! Today!
The war will be over by the time you’re up the rope! Don’t look at me, look at the bell! The bell!
Gods-damn it, recruit—”
Anders, rattled by the Mage
Instructor’s snarling commands, wavered just out of arm’s reach of the bell. He grabbed for the ringer, but it slipped
through his fingers. Fear flooded
through him, and the wispy corona disappeared.
Powerless, he fell.
The Mage Instructor interrupted his
curse, focusing instead on catching the plummeting recruit before he hit the
compacted sand of the training field from three stories up.
Anders curled into a ball, trying
to soften the crash that never came. Inches
from impact, Anders opened his eyes. A
yellow suspension field held him in an unyielding grip. Growling out a sub-incantation, the Mage
Instructor opened the fingers wide on his non-wand hand. Anders was now spread-eagled, helpless in the
glowing grip of the spell. With a flick of
the M.I.’s baton-wand, Anders spun like a pinwheel on a windy day.
“Close, Private Farmboy,
but close ain’t enough. You come see me
back at the squad bay. You an’ me are
gonna party, you understand that?”
“Yes, sir!” the
exhausted recruit said, nauseous from the fall and gyrations. The tall, lanky recruit choked back vomit
when he hit the ground. Wiping his mouth
with the sleeve of his combat robe, Anders shuffled off to the next training
station on the circuit.
The Mage
Instructor pointed to the next nervous recruit in line to fly up the obstacle.
“Next, you,
Private Slowpoke, you see my bell at
the top of the obstacle? Yes? Let’s see if you can fly better than you run. Up the rope!”
“Aye, aye, sir!”
* * * * *
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More to come.
Best,
JBR
